


White Blood

by anna_sun



Category: Hamilton - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:00:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7613731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_sun/pseuds/anna_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm ready to go, I'm ready to go,<br/>Can't do it alone, can't do it alone,<br/>I'm ready to fall, so tired of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide trigger warning. I've made the mistake of reading some fics without reading the tags first and accidentally ending up a sobbing mess wanting to get back into bad, bad habits. 
> 
> This work here is me needing to get some angst out. Don't read and end up regretting it, darlings. I love you.  
> Though if you WANT pain, read this while listening to White Blood by Oh Wonder.

Suicide is tragic.

John looks at the droplets of blood painting the tragically white ceramic of his bathroom floor red, and he swipes his finger through it, thinking that maybe if it fades out enough, pink would make for a much prettier artwork. It's then that he remembers, with the head of his thumb covered in his own gore, that no, not everything collides together, crashes and mixes up to make something else, that the tiles can't change the blood, that blood is red and is just blood and. 

And is on the floor. There's nothing he can do to stop it, now. 

Tragic, really. 

He didn't have razor blades, so he had to use a pathetic kitchen knife, not that he never shaved, just- he used one of those electric ones, most of the time, when Alexander complained about the growing length of his beard and said he'd much rather kiss the soft freckled skin of his cheeks with nothing else in the way. Stupid, in John's honest opinion, because he on the other hand liked Alexander's stubble. Though he couldn't really explain why if he tried. 

_I can't do it anymore, John, I really thought I could, but I need- I need time._

Time. John thinks and remembers and he's aware the laugh escapes his mouth sounding bittersweet, angry. It's the laugh that makes him feels like his lungs are being ripped out of his body, scrunching their way up his throat. A laugh he knows like he knows the buzz of knuckles against jaw, or the thrill of a split in half beer bottle shaking threateningly at his throat. A laugh he wishes he could forget, but this time doesn't need to swallow down in fear of scaring Alex away. _Time_. What could time do, except for tearing them further and further apart with each second passing?  

He brings his tainted thumb to his lips, and they feel numb as he sucks the blood away from the skin. It tastes like dust, iron, and a distant aftertaste of- of Alexander.

He closes his eyes.

The bastard just _had_ to soak himself into not only John's skin, but his veins too, his blood. His whole very fucking being.

He sucks on his thumb some more like the pathetic child he is and bites down a sob hard enough that he can feel his heart beating beneath his nail when he finally tears his hand away. There's a string of saliva connecting his mouth to his digit, and he cries some more, feels the spit wetting his chin. 

He wishes he was in the bath, but doesn't think he has the strength to push himself up into it now.  

Though it doesn't really matter, at this point. 

_You're so full of rage, baby, and you tell me you're trying but- but you're not, I can't see it, and I can't- I can't handle it, not anymore. I can't patch you up every time you go out craving for, for destruction. I can't._

Baby. Baby, can you pass me the salt? Baby, just shift over a bit, yeah, just like that. Baby, don't look at me like that. Fuck, stop, baby, you're scaring me, please- Baby, I love you, you know I do. I'll always be there for you. Baby, baby, baby.

John looks down at the mess he's made on both of his wrists, two equally disgusting shivering cuts going from right below his palm to halfway up his arm. They're messy, blood gushing out from certain parts of the injuries due to the change of deepness in them along their lengths, and God, is he only now starting to notice how much it hurts? Because it does, it fucking burns, and so he finds himself with his right hand pressing down on the left cut, holding on for dear life as he ignores the way his fingers seem to be slipping away from his skin.

There's no purpose to that, really. Just a strong envy to feel the thing that's finally going to kill him off. As good as gone.

His fingers dig into his flesh and another sob is extracted from his chest.   

_I've spent years loving you, John. I just think you need to spend some loving yourself._

Years. It feels like centuries ago, Alexander came up to him in the college's library trying so hard to stay polite as he said the book he was holding in his hand was an absolute piece of garbage and that he should go into the Biography's section if he wanted to read some good shit. Feels like decades before today, when John kissed him goodnight after their first date, both of them looking like fools as they smiled into each other's mouths, pretending they weren't young and craving for something else entirely. They were young and they are still young, John realizes. He could picture Alexander's youthful eyes looking at him one last time before he'd closed the door behind him, and so it couldn't have been decades, even if it felt like it. 

John remembers reading somewhere that blood was the main vessel for oxygen to travel around bodies. He tries to wiggle his toes but they feel numb, his fingers too. He's hit with sudden sharp fear, finding it strange that he didn't even feel that when he dragged the end of the knife on the surface of his skin.

Right now it feels more like all of his lights are shutting off, coherent thoughts all collapsing into one another, good and bad times flashing behind his eyelids, ghosts of past feelings passing through him, and he wonders if that's what they mean when they talk about a whole life flashing before one's eyes. 

It's- it's nice, in a way. His final rest. Finally. 

_John, please, look at me- John, I'm scared, please, John-_

Alexander wasn't scared of much, wasn't scared to speak up or to have an opinion, to talk back to a stranger, to exist. But there came times where he was scared of him. When John's knuckles were shaking with the want to destroy something beautiful and Alexander was standing right _there_ , his eyes widened with fear, and John sickeningly felt powerful. It was wrong, so fucking wrong, and it always took everything in him not to lash out on the thing he loved most in this world. He always ended up on his knees, begging for Alex's forgiveness, as he wiped his tears away and always, always forgave him, whispering kind words and promises of better times into his ear.    

He feels all of his limbs giving out on him, arms resting heavy on the sides of his body and legs melting onto the floor. It doesn't even feel like his body exists anymore. 

Maybe he should have written a note, anything, to say he's sorry, that he didn't mean- he didn't mean for it to end this way. Or maybe he should have called his dad, one final Fuck You before ending it all. There were a lot of maybes, too many maybes even, and John didn't have the time to think about them all anymore. He didn't even want to start thinking about what he could have accomplished in his pathetic life, or what he could have changed. 

It was done. John Laurens' tragic tale was coming to an end. 

 _I tried, baby. I'm sorry._  

I did too, John thinks. 

I did too. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all in one go, every mistake is my own. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are also very much appreciated. Thank you all for reading <3


End file.
